


a matter of tolerance

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, First Kiss, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:08:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22077460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Drunk Johnlock shenanigans
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528859
Comments: 20
Kudos: 161





	a matter of tolerance

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill response for @jean-the-ginger on tumblr in response to them picking these two prompts from a prompt list:
> 
> #5. "I don't think Google can help with this."
> 
> #11. "The pavement is not trying to kill you."

It started with a night out. Innocent enough. Pints of foamy beer and the smell of cigarette smoke in a too-crowded pub. Sherlock and John sat at a small table, perched on rickety wooden bar stools. One of the legs clipped the floor every time John reached for his drink, making Sherlock scowl.

"Why are we here?" Sherlock cringed at the drag of John's stool against the uneven floorboards. He gripped a full glass of beer with white knuckles, pushing the words through gritted teeth.

"Because," John replied, amiable and laid-back. "You said you wanted to do 'normal people things,' and this is one of those things."

A murderous expression twisted Sherlock's face, jaw clenching. "Normal people things are boring." He scraped at the beer-stained tabletop with a short, well-kept nail. Huffing, his full lips dropped into a pout. "It's too loud in here."

John sipped at his drink, chuckling. "You just haven't drunk enough yet." Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Would that make being here easier?" he asked, curiousity filtering through his low voice.

"Oh, yeah." John nodded and flicked his fingernails against his condensation-streaked glass. Sherlock flinched at the noise, and John dipped his head in silent apology. "Alcohol dulls the senses and inhibitions. Lets you enjoy situations normally not so enjoyable."

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed. He stared into his beer with an appraising look. Sucking in a loud breath, he shrugged, lifted the mug, and downed the almost full pint. When he sat back, wiping foam from his mouth and setting the glass on the table, John's wide eyes made him blink.

"What?" he asked, a frown dropping his brows down. "Did I do it wrong?"

An incredulous laugh slipped from John’s lips. "I mean, no—but Sherlock, you don't need to _chug_ it down!"

"And why not?" Sherlock retorted. He eyed John's nearly empty glass and waved at the waitress to bring another round. "Is getting drunk not the goal?"

"Well...yes..." John replied, slow, almost dazed.

Sherlock shrugged. "Then, I fail to see the issue." A slight flush rose in his pale cheeks as the alcohol in his stomach began to seep into his bloodstream. "As you know, John, I am nothing if not efficient."

"Clearly," John said. His face was dour as he watched the waitress place two pints on the table, whisking away their empty glasses.

"Cheers, John." Lifting his mug, Sherlock offered the edge. Tipping his own glass against the rim, John snorted.

"Cheers."

* * *

Several uncounted beers later, they stumbled out of the pub, all but pushed out the doors by the bartender.

"You're cut off!" the man yelled after them as they careened into the street. "Go home and sleep it off!"

They meandered along the sidewalk, bumping into one another and weaving. John threw an arm out for balance when Sherlock stepped on his foot. "Maybe you shouldn't have said anything about his wife cheating on him."

Sherlock offered a broad, lopsided grin that reflected in his hazy eyes. "And you shouldn't have tried to fight the guy who called me a tosser."

John flapped his hands with quick, clumsy movements. "Nonsense, he deserved the broken nose." He looked at his hands. "Worth the bruised knuckles." John grinned up at Sherlock with a cheeky look, short hair mussed and sticking up in the back. Sherlock reached out, intending to pat it into place. Instead, he tripped over his feet and sprawled on the sidewalk. Arms spread out on either side of his prone form.

"Sherlock!" John dipped into an unsteady squat at the man's side. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock lifted his head, groaned, and rolled onto his back with great effort. "John," he said in a deep, whining voice. "The pavement has made an attempt on my life!"

John clutched at his side as laughter ached through his chest. "The pavement is not trying to kill you." Slipping his hands under Sherlock's back, he pulled him into a sitting position. "Up you get." Sherlock draped his arms over John's shoulders, letting the shorter man pull him to his feet. He brushed at his jacket, small pebbles falling to the ground. There was a small scrape on his chin, and a twig caught in his hair.

"See? You've survived. Well done." John lifted on his tiptoes, plucking the small stick out of Sherlock's mussed curls. He held it up between finger and thumb, grinning wide and sloppy as he looked up into Sherlock's wide-eyed face.

Sherlock blinked down at the man before him, head foggy and stomach warm with alcohol. Lifting a hand, he cupped John's face. His arm shook, but his fingers were steady as he curved them along the arch of John's jaw.

John looked at him, inquisitive. "Sherlock?" He tilted his head, warm breath wafting over Sherlock's forearm. "You okay?"

"Better than okay," Sherlock breathed, fingers slipping lower until they found John's fluttering pulse. Dropping his head, he closed the distance between them. John's lips were warm and wet. Sherlock tasted beer and a faint flavour reminiscent of John's smell, caught whenever John was close. It was almost spice-like, warm, and citrusy with a hint of leather and pine: Gun oil and eucalyptus soap. Sherlock groaned as John shifted closer, hands fisted in the front of the Belstaff.

Strong hands, compact and competent. Doctor's hands. John's hands, one moving higher. Over Sherlock's neck and across his cheek. Clumsy but determined as John buried his fingers in a tangle of curls at the base of Sherlock's skull. John tugged, light and deliberate, and Sherlock moaned into his mouth. He slid his hands over John's shoulders, along his back and down to his waist. Digging his fingers into the curve of John's left hip, tongue tracing over John's bottom lip, he pulled him closer. John whined into the contact, mouth dropping open in a pant as their tongues met.

Sherlock felt his legs loosen as he softened, melting into John's warm body. His hand shifted lower, slipping into the back pocket of John's jeans to grip his arse.

"Hey!" Angry and loud, a voice echoed in the night air. "Get a bloody room, would ya?!"

John jerked back as Sherlock stumbled in shock, both of them almost falling. John's face went a brilliant shade of red. Sherlock looked over his head to see a small group of men walking towards them. The owner of the voice looked embarrassed and uncomfortable—no doubt, due to encountering two grown men groping one another like teenagers outside of the pub.

"Shit—uh, sorry!" John gasped, the colour of his face bordering on crimson. Sherlock grabbed his hand, turned, and pulled John after him as he sprinted away. John ran at his side, breathing loud and uneven.

Crashing through the door into 221B, they fell into a tangled pile at the bottom of the stairs. Sherlock's head struck the banister, and he saw stars, John draped across his stomach and gasping.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" John exclaimed. He rolled until he was cradled against Sherlock's bent legs, head, and chest pillowed on Sherlock's abdomen. He sucked in loud breaths, blinking in quick, rapid bursts. Beyond the stairs, Mrs. Hudson's door opened, and she peeked out at them with raised brows.

"Oh, hello boys," she greeted, tone clipped. "Thought maybe I was being robbed, glad to see it's just my noisy tenants instead."

John flushed and struggled to roll off Sherlock. He flailed, only succeeding in wedging his leg between Sherlock's and kneeing him in the groin. Sherlock's breath whooshed out in a groan, and he collapsed back against the floor. "Oh, shit. Sorry, Sherlock," John said abashedly. Sherlock waved a hand, face tight with pain, his breathing coming out in laboured gasps.

Behind them, Mrs. Hudson sighed, "The state of you two." Leaning against the doorframe, she watched as they extricated themselves from one another and struggled to their feet. Sherlock looked ill, curling into himself as he tried to smile at John in reassurance.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson," Sheepish, John locked an arm around Sherlock's waist and helped him up the stairs. The only answer was another suffering sigh from beyond the stairs.

Upstairs, John and Sherlock slumped onto the sofa, arms and legs tangled in a clumsy heap. John opened his mouth to apologize again, but a low snore emerged from Sherlock, and he shut it again. Closing his eyes, he let himself slip into sleep.

* * *

He woke to bright light piercing his head like a knife. Squinting through slitted eyes, John groaned at the sunlight pouring in to the sitting room. He shifted, stretching out his stiff legs. His head was pillowed on Sherlock's lower back with one arm draped over the man's rear. The other was trapped between their bodies, where the detective lay on his stomach.

John moved to sit up, but a hand curled along his stomach. Startled, he felt Sherlock roll onto his side, pulling John down between his chest and the back of the couch. Finding himself pressed to a long neck and soft curls, John snorted, Sherlock's hair ticking his nose.

"John," Sherlock mumbled, voice rumbling through his chest. There was a plaintive, desperate note in his tone.

"Yes?" John replied, pushing his face against warm skin.

"I think I'm dying," the words escaped Sherlock in a groan, and he tilted his head down to peer at John with one red, bleary eye. "My mouth tastes like something crawled inside and perished a week ago."

John chuckled, wincing when pain shot through his skull. "That's called a hangover, Sherlock." He stretched, slipping a careful leg between Sherlock's. The detective hummed, chest vibrating against John's, and hooked his thigh over John's hip.

"Still feels like I may die," he complained, drifting a hand up John's side to his shoulder, then back down to settle on his waist. "I should check Google to see if anyone has ever died from a hangover."

Pressing his face against Sherlock's cheek, John nuzzled at the soft skin under the other man's ear. "I don't think Google can help with this." He brushed his lips along the side of Sherlock's neck, drawing a shiver from the detective. "This is our penance."

"Mm, I didn't know penance could be simultaneously awful and enjoyable," Sherlock murmured. He tilted his head until he could inhale John's scent from where his neck curved to meet his shoulder.

"That mean you wanna make it a habit?" John breathed, shivering as Sherlock licked a hot, wet path along the side of his neck. Sherlock chuckled, lips quirking against John's skin.

"The penance? No." He gripped John's waist, pulling him tighter against his body. "You and me, like this? _That_ I could tolerate as routine."

"Oh, you'll tolerate me, will you?" John teased, pressing back into the couch. Sherlock followed, a moth to the flame as if tethered to the warmth of John's body.

"I suppose tolerate is not the right word..." Sherlock's lips moved along the curve of John's jaw, making him close his eyes and sigh. "After all... I don't need to get drunk to enjoy your company."

"Glad to hear it," John breathed, tilting his head to capture Sherlock's mouth with his. He felt Sherlock smile against his lips and couldn't help grinning back.


End file.
